


Dreaming Of A Corner Office

by DictionaryWrites



Series: i'm emo over gabriel nbd [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel/Demon Relationship, Angels, Complicated Relationships, Denial of Feelings, Emotionally Repressed, Feelings, Guilt, Intimacy, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 20:47:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19411114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: “Am I gonna Fall?” Gabriel asked.“No,” Michael said, frowning up at him and stroking the side of his neck. “Why would you think that?”“’Cause I said… what I said. ‘Cause I doubted.”“No,” Michael said softly. With her hair all around her face, it was almost like she had a halo again. “No one Falls for things like that anymore.”“What do they Fall for?”“You should take a break,” Michael said quietly. “Go down to Earth for a while. Jog. Swim. I’ll hold the fort.”





	Dreaming Of A Corner Office

In the aftermath of it all, Gabriel stood alone in his office.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like his office. He did. Gabriel liked everything – he was an angel, he had to. He was meant to like everything, except for that which was Bad, and his office was, by definition, _Good_ , so he _had_ to like it. He had to.

But—

It wasn’t the same.

He still remembered what it had been, once upon a time, when Heaven hadn’t been a skyscraper. When it had been… A tower. Long, long ago. And not a tall tower, either, not all that tall at all. No long waits in the elevators, no escalators, only two flights of stairs to the top, and it had been open, right out onto the clouds, with four turrets, just little ones. On a good day, when they were all here, they’d each be standing on one of them, with Lucifer in the middle, and so much _light_ had come out of him—

He’d liked the turret. He’d liked the open space, where he could see everything below, where he could just step right off if he wanted to, and start flying. Here, he could survey all, but through sheet glass.

None of the windows in Heaven opened.

That wasn’t what they were for.

He didn’t turn when he heard the quiet click of heels on the marble floors, didn’t turn even when he felt Michael come up closer behind him, so close that she was at his shoulder. Where was Uriel? He didn’t know. There were only three of them now. No more turrets, no more _corner offices_ , as Raphael used to call the bits that came after. Just…

“You should let your hair down,” Gabriel said.

“I’m sorry?”

Gabriel turned to look down at Michael. Her brow was furrowed slightly, her lips pressed together, and he hated, not for the first time, that they were all crammed into their human bodies. He liked them, he _did_ , he liked the sensations that being physical came with, but he’d never learned to read faces like the others seemed to, and he didn’t think, at this point, that he ever would. He looked at Michael’s face, her knotted brow, her lips pursed, her slightly tilted head—

What did it mean?

She looked like that when she was angry. When she was thoughtful. When she was on her own, and not talking to anybody. She made that face all the time. He could never puzzle out which meaning he was meant to get from it, when she wore it on her face.

He wished everyone could be… _clearer_.

Sandalphon, he was clear, he made everything clear, because he _knew_. He knew it was hard for Gabriel, even if it wasn’t hard for him. Michael knew, he thought, but she didn’t _get it_ , like Sandalphon did.

And Uriel…

Well.

Uriel didn’t like to show what she was feeling too much in her face anyway.

“You should let your hair down,” he said again. “You like to, right? That’s why you have long hair. You might as well. Not like anyone’s gonna object. Bet She won’t even notice.”

Michael’s lips parted. Her brows raised. Her eyes widened.

Another fucking mystery.

“Gabriel,” she said quietly, and then she reached out, touching his arm. He exhaled, hard, and felt her Grace touching his, their bodies reduced down to something unimportant as they communed like angels were supposed to, like they were _meant_ to. She might be in a smaller human body, but she _wasn’t_ smaller, not really: she was brighter than he was, brighter and bigger and smarter, and he knew it. He wasn’t bitter about it. That was how things were meant to be: tools were made to their purposes. He didn’t need to be smart, or bright, or big, not like Michael did.

Not like Lucifer was. Not like Raphael was. Not like _God_ was.

Michael pulled her hand back like he’d burned her, and he turned his face away, looking out of the window again as she reached up, carefully drawing the pins out of her hair. She brushed it, sometimes. Uriel had said so, with a kinda judgemental tone (or so Sandalphon had told him it was, later), that she had a comb and that he’d sit on her desk and comb out her hair, or just run her fingers through it.

It looked nice. Long, red, dark. Thick.

“That’s how Raphael’s hair used to be,” he said. “When he was in a body.”

“Only when he was concentrating,” Michael said, shaking her head slightly and letting the tresses fall in thick, glossy waves either side of her face. Conflicting images met in Gabriel’s head: modern fashion magazines, which said hair like that was for pretty women in perfume ads and on TV, of which Gabriel had a barely passable understanding, and the _old_ knowledge, that that was the hair of a warrior, freshly fallen from its helmet. “His hair was… fire and sparks. Mine’s never like that, Gabriel. I just have the flakes of gold.”

She wasn’t meeting his eyes. She had her face turned to the window, her hair settled on her shoulders, and he set his jaw.

“What happens now?” he asked.

“You decide,” Michael murmured. “You’re in charge, Gabriel.”

“No,” Gabriel said. “No, I just sit in the big office, and tell people what to do. I’m not in charge. I’ve never been in charge. I do what I’m told. That’s what I was made for, Michael: obedience.”

Michael was quiet for a long, long few moments. He stared at her face, willing it to actually reveal something, but no revelation came.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No, you’re fucking not,” Gabriel replied. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t shout. He didn’t think his tone sounded angry, even, just kinda flat. He didn’t have the energy to be angry, he didn’t think. “I don’t think you’ve ever been sorry about anything, not ever.”

“I have,” Michael murmured, giving him a sideways look. Reproachful, maybe. Or just cautious. Or something else. “I was sorry when Lucifer fell. When Raphael died. I was sorry during the war, and I’m… _sorry_ , Gabriel. About Aziraphale.”

“He never liked me,” Gabriel said in an undertone. “Not ever. I thought if I… I thought I could get him to. Everyone used to like Raphael.”

“You’re not Raphael,” Michael said softly. “He’s dead. It’s just you and I and Uriel now, Gabriel.”

“Yeah, _just_ us,” Gabriel said, and he turned to look at Michael, stepped to the side slightly so she couldn’t look away from his face when he made eye contact. “You know, Metatron, they’re crazy. They don’t know what’s going on, not at all. She doesn’t talk to them anymore than She talks to anybody. So what are we doing here, Michael?”

“We propagate Good,” Michael said, her hands spreading slightly, but she didn’t touch him. She was leaning back just slightly, but he couldn’t tell if it was because he was being intimidating ( _Terribly large, you know_ , Aziraphale’s voice echoed in his head. _You can be so intimidating_.) or if it was just that she had to lean back to look at him.

Just in case, he took a step back.

“What’s that mean?” Gabriel asked.

Michael watched him for a long moment. “What do you mean?” she asked evenly.

“What’s that mean, Good? What if we’re not Good? What if we’re doing the wrong thing? What if the point of it is that it’s not simple at all, and that’s why you’ve had backchannels for six thousand years and never told me, but nothing bad ever happened to you, because it _doesn’t matter_? Because She doesn’t care?”

“The Almighty _cares_ , Gabriel—!”

“Yeah?” Gabriel asked. “She say that, ever? Recently, at all?”

He watched her throat bob – she was swallowing. Nervousness, maybe. Or sadness. Or she was just swallowing, because she had a throat. He did that sometimes. “I don’t think this is about God,” Michael said. “And I didn’t… It wasn’t six thousand years, Gabriel, and it—”

“Don’t want to hear excuses,” Gabriel said. Michael held her tongue. “Where’s Uriel?”

“On her own,” Michael murmured. “It’s what she needs.”

“Beelzebub doesn’t know what’s gonna happen next, either. Said we should just go back to normal.”

“We should.”

“How can we?”

“What else do you suggest?” Michael asked, arching an eyebrow. He knew what _that_ meant. Aziraphale used to arch an eyebrow at him. It meant _shut up_. It meant _I don’t like you, and you know it_. It meant _I only ever really loved Crowley. So sorry to hear you thought otherwise_.

“I can…” Gabriel opened his mouth, and then he closed it again. “I can’t do complicated, Michael. I can’t do it. It needs to be… simple.”

“It’s simple,” Michael said, and when he didn’t reply, she squeezed his elbow: calm flowed through him, pushed over from her side. “I’ll make it simple, Gabriel,” she promised, and he leaned in toward her, leaning to touch their foreheads together. She reached up, touching the side of his neck, the other one gripping his arm, and it was— It _was_ nice. Calm. Pressure.

“Am I gonna Fall?” Gabriel asked.

“No,” Michael said, frowning up at him and stroking the side of his neck. “Why would you think that?”

“’Cause I said… what I said. ‘Cause I doubted.”

“No,” Michael said softly. With her hair all around her face, it was almost like she had a halo again. “No one Falls for things like that anymore.”

“What do they Fall for?”

“You should take a break,” Michael said quietly. “Go down to Earth for a while. Jog. Swim. I’ll hold the fort.”

“Do you remember,” Gabriel said, “what it used to be like? The tower?”

“Yes.”

“Time up here isn’t meant to be linear,” Gabriel said. “So why can’t we go back?”

“You know why.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

Michael’s palm brushed his cheek, and he wished he could read the look on her face, in her eyes, mine it for its subtleties. Sandalphon was dealing with something in one of the middle offices, some dispute about paperwork, after the Antichrist boy…

“It wasn’t your fault,” Michael said quietly. “You tried to get him on side. We all did. He never wanted us, Gabriel, he wanted that demon.” _He never wanted us_ , she says. _He never wanted you_ , she means.

“Did you know?” Gabriel asked. “Right from the Beginning, did you know?”

Michael hesitated for just half a second before she said, “No, of course not.”

“I’d ask if you can lie to me,” Gabriel said, with a forced smile, “but I already know that you can.”

Michael looked at him for a long few moments, her eyes flitting back and forth, like she was studying his face, like she was finding it as hard to read as he found hers, but he knew that wasn’t the case. “I love you,” she said.

Gabriel reached out, touched her hair, sighed when he felt how glossy it was. He’d look dumb, he thought, if he had long hair like that. But… it was nice. “I love you too,” he replied evenly, and then he pulled away.

He felt her gaze on his back as he went.

It was raining when he came out in London. The heavens had opened, and the rain poured down so heavy and thick that it was coming down in sheets, and Gabriel, desperate to feel something, let it fall right onto him. It soaked into his suit, his hair, over his skin, and it felt so heavy, _so_ heavy, that it was almost comforting.

Almost.

\--

It was two in the morning, dark as all hell outside, and Crowley was laughing. His head was tipped back against Aziraphale’s sofa, upon which he was languorously sprawled, and Aziraphale was sitting in his armchair, giggling, his fingers over his lips. He looked beautiful, like this, the soft light from the candle illuminating the lines in his face, the dimples in his cheeks.

He always looked beautiful, of course.

 _Radiant_.

Aziraphale sighed, leaning back in his seat, his knees together.

“Do you remember it?” he asked, suddenly. “Heaven, I mean?”

Crowley remembered it.

He remembered hanging the stars, he remembered the burning heat that had streamed from his eyes and his hair, he remembered being taught to heal plagues that, by the time they rolled around, were what he was meant to start instead. He remembered falling hard on the dirt, not able to look at Lucifer’s face because he just couldn’t stand the brightness anymore, and sobbing as the other angel had picked him up, dusted him off, and whispered poison in his ears.

“Bits and pieces,” Crowley said, with an idle shrug of his shoulder. “I never had a sword, I remember that.” And he hadn’t needed one, anyway – Raphael had been a pillar of purifying flame without the need for a sword, but he’d never liked fighting anyway.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. He had that look in his eyes again. That slightly hungry look that made heat prickle on Crowley’s skin, a ghost of yearning desire that made his whole body feel _tight_ , and full of wanting in turn. It had been a month since the Apocalypse hadn’t happened, and Crowley had seen that look what felt like a thousand times. He had seen it before, of course, but _now_ , now, it was different. Aziraphale’s tongue flicked out over his lower lip. “It’s— It’s getting rather late.”

“Or early,” Crowley said. “Depends on how you look at it.”

“The wine’s nearly finished.”

“Yep.” Crowley drew out the plosive in the “p”, and he kept Aziraphale’s gaze, his own steady. His sunglasses had been laid aside, and he watched Aziraphale shift in his seat.

“You could…” he said slowly, “stay.”

“Could I?” Crowley said. “I’d just need a blanket.”

Aziraphale’s face, which had lit up with its own brightness, fell, and he looked to the sofa. He set his jaw. His eyes nearly shone.

“Is this what it’s going to be like, then?” he asked, rather archly. “Forever?”

“Nah,” Crowley said, suppressing the bitter laugh that threatened to bubble up from his throat. “Just another six thousand years. Turnabout’s fair play, so I hear.”

“I want you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said breathlessly, his eyes all but watering. “Won’t you believe that?”

“I believe it,” Crowley said. “But, angel, I’m sorry, I can’t…” He inhaled, through his nose, slowly. “I can’t do purely physical, sweetheart. Not after everything. You let me know when you’re ready, but I can’t do this by half-measures. You ask me to try, and I’ll just crumble to dust.”

“You’re being needlessly dramatic,” Aziraphale said. “It’s just _sex_ , Crowley, it’s just—”

“Not for me it wouldn’t be,” Crowley replied. “Not if it’s you.”

“You don’t want my body, then?” Aziraphale asked softly. “You don’t _lust_ for me, big bad demon that you are?”

“I lust for every part of you,” Crowley said, and drained his glass. “Doesn’t mean I’ll set myself on fire to get it.”

“I seem to recall you did,” Aziraphale replied. His voice was cold, but his eyes were brimming with tears. It made Crowley’s heart pang, and he ached for his own bed, ached, but he knew if he gave in, if he went upstairs with Aziraphale, if they had sex and _then_ , then the angel kept shying away from his hand when they were out together, if he wouldn’t let Crowley kiss him…

“Touché,” Crowley muttered, and got up to go.

“It isn’t that I don’t, you know,” Aziraphale whispered as he rushed to his own feet, his hands twitching at his sides, but not gathering the courage, it seemed, to reach out and touch him. “Just that— I’m an _angel_ , Crowley, I can’t…”

“Don’t what, sweetheart?” Crowley asked in a soft, sultry voice, and he watched Aziraphale’s face, watched his lips part into a little O, watched his eyes darken.

“Don’t… lo—” Aziraphale swallowed. “I love everything, of course. I’m an angel.”

“Not everything,” Crowley repeated, with a sardonic little smile. “Everything _Good_. Night, angel.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, _beseeched_ , and his hand touched Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley’s whole body thrilled, and for a long second, his resolve weakened, his desire to fall against the angel the strongest it had ever been, but… He _couldn’t_. “What will it take?”

“You _know_ , angel,” Crowley said. “What will it take? I’ll give your _purely physical_ when you take the rest of what I’m offering you. I’ll give you _purely physical_ when you take my arm in the park, and when I hold your hand at the Ritz, when I can pull you close and kiss you just because you’re there, and I love you, and I want to.”

“I wish you’d stop saying that,” Aziraphale whispered. “It makes me feel so perfectly dreadful.”

“To be loved?” Crowley repeated. “I wouldn’t know, sweetheart. I’m not familiar with the sensation.” Aziraphale winced, turning his head away, and the guilt roiled in Crowley’s chest like the kraken must have, when it came up from the froth beneath. “I’m not a box of chocolates, Aziraphale. You can’t just take the cherry ganache and leave me to handle the rest.”

“The cherry ganache are my favourite,” Aziraphale said. His gaze was on Crowley’s feet.

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “I know.”

Aziraphale’s fingers pressed more tightly to his arm, his palm spreading there, and he looked up at Crowley, his lips parted, his eyes full of heat. Crowley felt his mouth go dry, to have Aziraphale that close to him, to have him _looking_ at him like that… “You’re certain,” he said softly, with far more implication than Crowley had ever been able to pack in two words, “that I can’t tempt you?”

“You want that badly not to think, huh?” Crowley asked, leaning in, so that their noses brushed together, so that he could smell the wine on Aziraphale’s breath, sweet and enticing. “You want to be taken up to that bed of yours, laid out, mind wiped clean, leave you all relaxed and open on the bed, unknotted and untangled?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, his eyes fluttering closed. “Yes, I want— I want that.”

“Then have a wank, angel,” Crowley said. “I’m not a fucking Rabbit. Remember what I said about me having feelings too?”

“You _do_ have feelings too,” Aziraphale said. “The same as mine, lust, and want, and desire—”

“And _love_ ,” Crowley hissed.

“Why can’t I just _show_ you?” Aziraphale demanded, his voice cracking, his shoulders shaking. “You know what I feel about you, why does it have to be so _public_?”

“Who’re trying to impress, angel?” Crowley asked, and then smiled, although it hurt to do so. “Gabriel?”

Aziraphale’s nostrils flared, and just for a second, Crowley saw a little hint of the general inside Aziraphale’s soft body, saw a little hint of the holy fire in his eyes and the burn in his veins. “Get out,” he said, with more venom than Crowley had in his own mouth, and Crowley, ever obedient, turned on his heel, and left.

\--

It was raining outside, still, but none of it dared touch Crowley, and the droplets that came too close sizzled away as steam. Crowley moved toward the Bentley, but he stopped with his hand on the car door, looking at the figure across the street, sitting on a bench.

For one thing, there had been no bench there when Crowley had driven Aziraphale home from the Ritz a few hours ago. For a second thing, the figure had no umbrella, and was letting the rain soak into their suit.

For a third thing, it was Gabriel, and Crowley felt his chest give an uncomfortable pang.

He moved over, slowly, cautiously. The archangel had his head in his hands, and he didn’t look up at Crowley approached. Water trickled in rushing streams down the sides of his head, into his sleeves, down his neck, soaking into his scarf, his suit. He was shaking.

“Hey, big man,” Crowley said.

Gabriel looked up at him, and Crowley stared into his violet eyes, the same colour they were at the Beginning of everything, the same colour they’d always be. Not big, golden scales in thick patches on the skin; not flaming hair or eyes that were pure fire; not light that shone out of his every pore, so that no one could look at him directly.

Pretty, handsome Gabriel with his pretty, handsome eyes, always so much more human than the rest of them, even before any of them knew what it meant to be human, what it meant to be crammed into these two-legged, corporeal bodies.

“Get in the car,” Crowley said.

Gabriel did, unthinking, what he was made to do.

He obeyed.

“I’ve never been in a car before,” he said, after Crowley had driven two streets. He was still soaked through, but the Bentley knew better than to let any of it drip into its carpets, or the front bench.

“What do you think?” Crowley asked.

“It’s nice,” Gabriel said.

“You want me to take you anywhere?”

“Why?”

“You can’t just sit on a bench outside his bookshop, moping.”

“Because it’ll upset him?”

“Because he’s not _worth_ it,” Crowley said, glancing across to Gabriel, whose gaze was focused out of the window. Crowley remember how he’d used to be, in the turret that had been his, and then his corner office, when they’d made the changeover to the building, long before humanity even dreamed in that direction.

“What did you do?” Gabriel asked. “To Fall?”

Crowley inhaled, and he kept his gaze on the road. “You’re not going to Fall.”

“How do you know?”

“Because angels don’t Fall anymore. That ship sailed a long time back.”

“What did you do?”

“None of your business.”

“Did you doubt Her? The Almighty?”

“Nope.”

“You killed another angel?”

“No.”

“You followed Lucifer?”

“I asked questions.”

“Questions?”

“I asked questions. The wrong questions. Hung out with the wrong people. Before I knew what was going on, boom, unholy pain, in the dirt, Fallen.”

“But they chose to Fall. They wanted to rebel.”

“Not me.”

“Oh.”

“Why, you want to rebel?” Crowley asked.

“No,” Gabriel said. “I was just worried that I was. Not on purpose.”

“Oh.”

Crowley pulled the car over, and looked at Gabriel, pathetic, shivering, wet. Gabriel looked at him, and Crowley remembered what it had been like once upon a time, being second in command, following Lucifer’s line… And then, when he’d Fell, it had all kind of come apart a little. He’d avoided Heaven. Avoided Gabriel, Uriel, Michael.

Asked questions of the Almighty.

Fucked it up.

“If it makes you feel better,” Crowley said, “he won’t love me back either.”

Gabriel thought about this for a second. “It doesn’t,” he mumbled, the picture of misery. “Should it?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said. “To be honest, Gabriel, I don’t know shit about anything. Never have. Never will.” _Except Aziraphale, I know him_ , he nearly said, but it’d be like rubbing salt in the wound, and he didn’t want to, not this wound, not that said. _I know him, and sometimes, I wish I didn’t know him as well as I do. Maybe it’d be easier, if he was more of a mystery_.

“Me too,” Gabriel said.

“You can come up, if you want,” Crowley said. “Sleep on my couch.”

“I’ve never slept before.”

“I can show you how.”

“Why?” Gabriel asked, and Crowley… didn’t miss him. Not exactly. Except that he did, he missed Gabriel, missed Michael, missed Uriel, missed Lucifer – not the Lucifer of now, cold and quiet and so thrice-damned bitter, but the Lucifer there’d been, once upon a time. The grief cleaved him open, ripped open his ribs, but his heart where everybody could see it – everybody who was looking, of course. Gabriel could never see what was right in front of his face: that was always his problem.

“Why not?” Crowley asked.

“Because you’re a demon.”

“So? I was an angel once. Just like you.”

“Just like me?” Gabriel repeated. “No. That’s not true.”

“Not everything’s meant to be literal, big man,” Crowley said. Gabriel shifted slightly forward on the bench, and he reached out, his hand touching Crowley’s shoulder. It was a warm hand, big. Heavy. Crowley felt the Grace that prickled at the edge of his understanding, burned just slightly – a cold burn. It was… Familiar. Nice. Like home. “Purely physical,” Crowley said. “You know what that means?”

“No,” Gabriel said.

“Means it isn’t about love. It’s about… _sex_. Physical release. Bodies, just bodies.”

“I’m an angel,” Gabriel said. “We love everything. Everything Good.”

“I’m not Good,” Crowley reminded him.

“You must be,” Gabriel said. “Or he wouldn’t love you.”

“He doesn’t,” Crowley said. It tasted like ashes in his mouth.

“Oh.” Gabriel’s voice crumpled, and yes, same as always, that was Gabriel. Big, overexpressive, inescapably human Gabriel, who had no idea how human he was. “I’m sorry,” he said. He sounded like he meant it: he looked like he meant it to. “I’m— I shouldn’t ask you. But I need to ask someone.”

“Okay.”

“What happens next?”

Crowley inhaled through his teeth. “I don’t know,” he said. “Sorry that’s not the answer you wanted.”

“No,” Gabriel said, “it is.” And then he leaned forward, tangled his hand in Crowley’s hair and kissed him, kissed him hard and rough and with all the skill Aziraphale had taught him, and Crowley kissed him back.

\--

Gabriel waited for the moment where Crowley would push him off, or tell him to leave. His face was buried against Crowley’s thigh, which was skinny and lightly muscled, not plush like Aziraphale’s at all, with Crowley’s other leg loosely slung over his shoulder, his snake-scaled heel against Gabriel’s back. Crowley’s body was warmer than he’d expected, although not as warm as Aziraphale’s, and he had a penis – a cock – instead of a vulva, although he’d offered to do something different, if Gabriel preferred.

He kept waiting.

Crowley’s hand was carded in Gabriel’s hair, idly playing through the hair there, and it felt good, felt soothing in a way Gabriel didn’t know how to describe, not that he’d try to.

“Crowley,” he said.

“Mm?”

“Do you remember Heaven?”

“Yes.”

“You remember your name?”

“Yes.”

There was tension in the answer. Gabriel knew _that_.

Gabriel shifted his position, so that his cheek was against Crowley’s thigh instead of his forehead, and Crowley pulled a pillow closer, tugging Gabriel’s head up by his hair before dropping him down again. The pillow helped, making Crowley’s thigh into a real cushion, and Gabriel leaned into it.

“That must be hard,” he said.

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed. “You want a blanket?”

“You’re letting me stay?”

“Told you I would.”

Purely physical. Purely physical, but he was letting Gabriel _stay_ , letting him touch him, letting him lie his head on Crowley’s thigh… Gabriel _liked_ physical. He liked this better, he thought, than whatever it had been with Aziraphale. This didn’t hurt like that did. He wasn’t sure if it was meant to.

“Huh. Guess you did.”

“It’s easier. With a blanket.”

“’Kay.”

Crowley snapped his fingers, and a blanket fluttered down over Gabriel’s body, even as pyjamas materialised onto his own skin. Gabriel’s hand, which was wrapped loosely around the demon’s knee, was suddenly touching black silk, and he stroked the fabric thoughtfully.

“Does it hurt?”

“To Fall?”

“To sleep.”

“Oh. No. No, it doesn’t hurt. Just… close your eyes. Let yourself drift. It’ll come.”

“I should be angry at you,” Gabriel said. “I should… shout, and try to kill you. I should hate you.”

“Guess so,” Crowley said. He was smiling just slightly as he said it, but if there was more in his face, Gabriel didn’t know how to interpret it. He closed his eyes, and listened to the light flick off.

When sleep came, he dreamed of the time before the Beginning, and he couldn’t believe he’d never slept before.


End file.
